How we, poor players on life's little stage,
Thrust blindly at each other in our rage,
Quarrel and fret, yet rashly dare to pray
To God to keep us on our selfish way.
We think to move him with our prayer and praise
To serve our needs, as in the old Greek days
Their gods came down and mingled in the fight
With mightier arms the flying foe to smite.
The laughter of those gods pealed down to man;
For heaven was but earth's upper story then,
Where goddesses about an apple strove
And the high gods fell humanly in love.
_We_ own a God whose presence fills the sky;
Whose sleepless eyes behold the worlds roll by;
Whose faithful memory numbers, one by one,
The sons of man, and calls them each his son.
--Louise Chandler Moulton.
To make rough places plain, and crooked straight;
To help the weak; to envy not the strong;
To make the earth a sweeter dwelling place,
In little ways, or if we may, in great,
And in the world to help the heavenly song,
We pray, Lord Jesus, grant to us thy grace!